


Silentium Amoris

by Sani86



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Falling In Love, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poetry, Slow Burn, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: When John Keating returned to his Alma Mater after two decades’ absence, he expected to make some waves. What he didn’t foresee was how this move would change his own life.This is the behind-the scenes story of Mr. Keating’s time as a teacher at Welton.
Relationships: John Keating/George McAllister
Comments: 20
Kudos: 15





	1. Prologue: A new chapter

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to read this story, but no-one has written it... so I decided I would. Title from a poem by Oscar Wilde, for Reasons which will become clear later.
> 
> Edit: this will not make a whole lot of sense if you haven't seen the movie. I reference a lot of movie scenes without re-writing them. Then again, what are the odds of anyone reading fanfic without seeing the movie...??

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Keating returns to Welton.

John Keating looked up from the book he was reading as he heard the crunch of gravel under the car’s wheels. They were just turning into the driveway of Welton Academy: his home for the foreseeable future. As the old red brick building came into view, the memories of his own school days came flooding back. The trees were a bit taller, the masonry a bit more worn, but otherwise it was identical to the building he had last seen twenty years ago. How had nothing changed in all these years? It had no right not to have changed! He certainly had. Two decades spent in England had left their mark. Would he still find a space where he fit in here?

  
Keating was pulled out of his reverie by the driver clearing his throat. “We’re here, sir. Give you a hand with your luggage?” “Oh, of course, thank you.” He replied hurriedly, smiling at the man’s offer. His boxes of books had been sent ahead; all he had with him was his clothing and a few personal items. Grabbing a bag in each hand, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward into the next chapter of his life.


	2. Chapter 1 - Pleased to meet you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Keating meets a new friend.

Two days before the start of term, and the halls of Welton were slowly coming back to life. Most of the resident staff had returned from their holidays, and preparations were being made for the immanent start of the school term. George McAllister was comfortably ensconced in his rooms, the same rooms he had been staying in for over twenty years now. He had returned to Welton as a teacher as soon as he could after finishing university, finding a sense of comfort in the familiar environment. Nothing ever really changed at Welton – sure, the faces in his classroom changed, but apart from a few modern additions to the amenities and some new textbooks, it was virtually indistinguishable from the school he had graduated from some 28 years ago. Even the staff had hardly changed in the last decade.

He frowned slightly at the last thought, remembering that Mr. Portius had retired at the end of the previous school year. McAllister and the English teacher had been... not friends, exactly; Welton’s teachers were not known for their friendliness; but certainly, warm acquaintances. He would miss the older man’s company at mealtimes, their discussions of classical literature and their shared interest in linguistics. He sighed. Perhaps the new teacher would be worth befriending? He hoped so, or mealtimes and staff meetings would become even more intolerably boring. His colleagues were intelligent and respectable men, but not brilliant conversationalists.

Mc Allister mulled these thoughts over as he sat down at his desk to prepare his teaching materials for the first day’s classes. Not that there was much to prepare – he had been teaching the same curriculum for so many years, he could probably do it in his sleep. He would be using a new, updated edition of the textbook this year, however, and wanted to make sure that nothing substantial had changed. He scrabbled around on his desk, looking for the book in question. He realized that it must still be lying in his classroom, where he’d left it at the end of the last term. Grumbling under his breath at his own procrastination, he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to go get it. He simply couldn’t put it off any longer. He sighed, got back out of his chair, and set off down the hall.

He was barely out of his door when he heard music playing. This was a far more unusual occurrence than one might expect; in fact, McAllister could not recall ever hearing music in the school halls outside of assembly, chapel services or formal music practice. Curiously, he followed the sound, recognizing it as Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. It was an enthusiastic recording, complete with cannon fire and clashing cymbals, and as he drew nearer to the source of the sound McAllister realised he could hear someone humming along. He smiled to himself – it must be the new man, he thought; none of the old boys would be caught doing anything as undignified as singing to themselves. Sure enough, as he rounded the corner, he realized that the music was coming from Portius’s old apartment, where his replacement would presumably be staying. The door was half open, and McAllister caught sight of a man enthusiastically swaying and humming as he shelved books, occasionally stopping to swing his arms like a flamboyant conductor at the more exuberant passages. The man looked younger than himself, judging by his wavy brown hair and the easy grace with which he moved. He was dressed casually in brown corduroy trousers and a soft red cardigan over a white shirt with no tie, and a pair of bedroom slippers. McAllister was not sure whether to be intrigued or annoyed. Had his old almost-friend been replaced by a madman? Well, only one way to find out. He cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe.

The other man spun around, song dying in his throat. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone else was around. Let me just turn that down.” He reached out and turned a knob on the record player, muting the music somewhat but not turning it off. The he turned back and extended a hand. “John Keating. I’m the new English teacher”. McAllister reached out to shake Keating’s hand. “I thought you must be. We don’t often see now faces on the staff. George McAllister. I teach Latin.” 

Keating smiled apologetically. “I’m so sorry if I disturbed you, I can get a bit carried away with Tchaikovsky. This piece in particular; the passion, the sheer exuberance of it just sweeps me away. Makes me feel glad to be alive.” Keating was grinning broadly now, blue eyes sparkling with joy. The man’s enthusiasm was catching. “It is quite something, I have to agree.” said McAllister with a small smile. “It’s been a while since I heard such an excellent recording, much less saw a live performance.” “Oh, do you enjoy the orchestra?” Keating asked. “Very much so.” McAllister replied. “Or at least, I used to. Like I said, it’s been years since I’ve had the opportunity to indulge. I don’t have a record player, and it’s no fun going to a performance alone.” Keating’s eyes flicked over to his record player at this. “Well, I have quite a few excellent records. If you ever find yourself in need of a little musical cheer, I’d be happy to share.” McAllister smiled. “That’s very kind of you,” he said quietly.

There was a few beats of silence while neither man spoke. Then Keating cleared his throat. “To be honest, the place was so quiet that I wondered if anyone else was here. I was beginning to think I’d gotten my dates confused. Is it always this silent?” McAllister had to smile at that. “I think you’ll find we’re generally a quiet bunch. The faculty, at least; everyone tends to keep to themselves. It’s a different matter once the students arrive. Put a couple hundred pubescent boys in one building and chaos is inevitable.” McAllister shuddered slightly at the thought, but Keating just laughed. “Well, I’m looking forward to it.” “That makes one of us,” McAllister replied drily. “Personally, I’m enjoying my last day or two of peace.” 

The mention of the impending start of term reminded him that he had been walking this way with a specific purpose, and that purpose was not to chit-chat with the eccentric new English teacher. “I’d better get along then,” he excused himself. “Lots of preparation to finish for the new term. I was just on my way to go fetch some books from my classroom.” McAllister thought that Keating looked briefly disappointed, but the next moment the warm smile was back, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “All right then. It was a pleasure to meet you.” “Likewise, I’m sure” McAllister replied, a shade awkwardly, and then he turned and continued his journey down the hall. 

He heard the door click shut behind him, and as he walked away, the sound of Tchaikovsky swelling again. He shook his head, wondering how much friction this strange new man would cause among the faculty. McAllister knows that the Welton establishment is not at all welcoming to anything that it perceives as disruptive, and Keating certainly doesn’t look like he’d blend in with the status quo. What on earth could have possessed Nolan to hire the man? McAllister frowned to himself. Keating seemed like a likeable man, in the few minutes that they’d talked, and McAllister didn’t like to think that the newcomer might be made to feel unwelcome. He resolved to talk to him when he had a chance, give him the lay of the land, as it were, make sure that he wouldn’t get himself ostracized before he’d had a chance to settle in. Satisfied with this planned course of action, he hurried on to his classroom to finish his work for the day.

\---

Keating smiled to himself as he closed the door behind his new colleague. Acquaintance? Soon-to-be friend, perhaps? Keating had always been quick to make friends; he didn’t see the point of keeping people at arm’s length. His easy-going personality and quick smile had always drawn people to him, and he’d never been lonely for long.

McAllister had seemed friendly enough, unlike the teachers Keating remembered from his school years. He could still see them in his mind’s eye, the vanguard of old, stuffy men who looked like they had never cracked a smile in their lives. McAllister had seemed younger than the men of his memories – a few years older than himself, certainly, but with plenty of dark blonde still visible in his graying hair. The man had been reserved, clearly not used to making small talk with virtual strangers, but he had warmed to their conversation quickly. And Keating was certain he had never seen such a soft smile on any Welton teacher in all his years as a student. The man’s eyes held a gentleness that Keating had not expected.

Truth be told, he had been worried about fitting in with the other men on the faculty. He had never really measured up to the ideal of the perfect Welton gentleman; he was always just a bit too unruly, too fond of challenging any rule that he didn’t see the point of. His intelligence and his charm had been enough to ease his way through high school, even though his teachers were at times exasperated by his antics. Perhaps things had changed in the two decades since he had last set foot in these halls, he mused. His first encounter with a colleague certainly boded well.

Keating had hardly finished that thought before there was an angry knock on his door, causing him to startle and nearly knock his teacup to the floor. “Would you turn down that infernal racket? Some of us are trying to work!” bellowed an angry voice. Ah yes, there it was: the familiar old Welton attitude. Keating fumbled to turn down the music before opening the door to apologize, but he was just in time to see a white-haired man angrily rounding the corner of the corridor. He felt his spirits sag a little. Perhaps things had not changed as much as he had hoped.

With a small sigh he turned back to his room and closed the door. It was starting to occur to him that his tenure as a teacher as Welton was likely to be as colorful as his time as a student had been. He could only hope that he would find the same quality of friends this time around.


	3. Chapter 2 - The year begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of classes, featuring the famous "Carpe diem" scene

The students arrived, dragging the expected chaos in their wake. McAllister had hidden himself away in his room for that first day, only attending the compulsory assembly and mealtimes but otherwise avoiding the bustle of students settling in. Things had settled down since then, and with classes commencing, life was starting to return to its familiar routine. He paced serenely in the front of his classroom, reciting Latin conjugations for his students to repeat after him. “Agricolam... Agricola... Agricolae...” His mind wandered as he repeated the familiar phrases. “Agricolarum... Agricolis... Agricolas...” He wondered how Keating was settling in. At the assembly the previous day, the man had stood out like a sore thumb between the rest of the faculty, smiling shyly and radiating warmth. “Agricolis. Again, please. Agricolam...” He hadn’t realized Keating was a Welton alumnus, with honors no less. That might explain Nolan’s eagerness to hire him all the way from London. Say what you like, a Welton education could not be matched.

The shrill ring of the bell interrupted the class’s droning and brought McAllister’s thoughts back to the present. He raised his voice over the noise of the students packing up, reminding them of their homework for the next day as they filed out of the classroom. Then he turned to clean his blackboard for the next class. He had one more class, juniors, and then the next period free. He was looking forward to a quiet cup of tea in his rooms before lunch.

As he was walking down the hall later, he noticed a group of boys standing in the foyer on the floor below. He paused, confused; no students were supposed to be in the hallways during classes. Then he recognized an already familiar voice addressing the group. “Now, let me dispel a few rumors so that they don’t fester into facts”. He frowned to himself. What on earth was Keating doing? “Yes, I too attended Hell-ton and survived.” McAllister was partly shocked, partly amused at Keating’s casual use of the school’s irreverent nickname. “And no, at that time I was not the mental giant you see before you. I was the intellectual equivalent of a ninety-eight-pound weakling. I would go to the beach, and people would kick copies of Byron in my face.” McAllister couldn’t help but chuckle at this, then quickly bit it back as he realized he had no business listening in on Keating’s class. He turned on his heel, continuing to his room, still smiling in amusement at Keating’s peculiar sense of humor. This latest encounter had only confirmed his initial impression that Keating was not exactly typical Welton material, and he couldn’t help but like him for it. Yes, he would definitely have to make an effort to get to know this unusual new teacher.

\--- 

Keating was standing in the small room off his classroom, listening to the boys filing in. He smiled to himself as he listened to the sound of feet shuffling, books thumping down on desks, and the chatter and laughter of adolescent boys. This was the class he was looking forward to the most: the seniors in their final year of school. By this age, the boys were expected to have mastered grammar and vocabulary, and the year was spent focusing on literature, poetry and writing. These were the subjects he loved, and his heart soared at the chance to impart his passion to a next generation.

After a minute or so, the boys had settled in their seats, and he heard their confused murmuring at the absence of a teacher. Then he sauntered casually out through the class, whistling to himself. The 1812 Overture, again. It had been stuck in his head since he had been listening to it a few days before, and he wondered briefly how McAllister was faring on the first day of term. By the time he stepped out of the door, the boys in the class were thoroughly confused. Peeking his head back in, he beckoned them to follow with a “Well, come on,” delighting in the way he had caught them off balance.

Standing in the hallway, he was overwhelmed by an almost fatherly concern for the boys in front of him. He saw himself there, all those years ago, a thin young boy with uncertain blue eyes and unruly brown hair, hiding in the back because he didn’t know where else he fit in. He thought back to that kid as his students looked at the faces of the past, and did his best to impress on them the lesson that had changed his own life. “Carpe. Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary”.

\---

Keating was already seated for lunch when McAllister walked into the dining room. As luck would have it, the seat next to him was open. Perfect. He made his way over. “May I?” he asked, pulling the chair out. Keating looked up, smiling. “Go ahead.” He settled down in his seat and turned to Keating. “So, Mr Keating, how is the first day of class treating you?” “Please, call me John.” A smile. “It’s been great so far. I missed teaching over the summer. Not that I did much teaching today; it was more of a ‘get to know you’ day.” “Hmm,” replied McAllister thoughtfully. “Never really thought of getting to know my students beyond their names. I certainly don’t want them to get to know me too well. Familiarity breeding contempt, and all that.” Keating’s expression was unreadable. “I’m not so sure. I’ve always found that treating my students with kindness earned me their respect. And I like to think that that makes the learning experience just a little easier.”

At this point they were interrupted by Mr Nolan saying grace, and spent a busy minute or two helping themselves to lunch: beef stew, rice and boiled carrots. After a few bites in silence, McAllister piped up again. “So, you were a Welton boy?” “Yes, class of ’39. Twenty years ago now. Gosh, that makes me feel old! How about you, are you from around here?” McAllister chuckles. “You could say that. I was also at Welton, graduated in ’31. Spent a few years doing postgraduate work after university, but I came right back here as soon as I got the opportunity. Must have been, oh, 17 or 18 years ago... yes, 1941. I’ll probably stick around here until old age and infirmity drive me out.” “A true local, indeed,” Keating grins. “Indeed,” McAllister echoes. “Unlike you, I think. Nolan said you’d been teaching in London?” “Yes. I got a scholarship to Cambridge to read English, got an offer for a teaching job when I graduated, and put down roots on that side of the ocean for a while. Had a grand old time. I must admit, though, it’s... interesting to be back in my old stomping ground. Seeing how much has changed, or in most cases, not changed.” Keating’s eyes take on a distant look at this, presumably thinking back over the intervening years, and McAllister finds himself wanting to know more. “Why did you decide to come back here, then?” Keating looks away, almost as if he’s a bit uncomfortable with the question. For a moment, McAllister worries that he had said something wrong. Surely not? It was an innocent enough question, and not an unreasonable one. “Oh, I just felt it was time for a change. And the chance to return to my Alma Mater was just too good to pass up. Despite everything, I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for the old place.” Keating’s smile was back in place now, if a bit smaller than before, and McAllister felt a strange sense of relief. The more he talked to Keating, the more he thought that they might actually become friends, and it wouldn’t do to make things awkward. Goodness knows, it had been long enough since he’d had a true friend. So he simply smiled back at Keating and said, “Well, I hope you’ll be very happy here,” before turning his attention to his food.


	4. Chapter 3 - Rip it out!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mr. Keating, your crazy is showing..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite scenes in the movie! I've enjoyed seeing it through McAllister's eyes here.
> 
> Also, art!!!! Image and link in the text

Classes quickly settled into a predictable routine. A few days into the term, McAllister was walking down the hallway again when he heard the sound of tearing paper coming from Keating’s classroom. Not the sound of a single page being torn, but an absolute cacophony of ripping paper. Bewildered, he peered through the window in the door, only to be met with the sight of a whole classroom full of boys apparently destroying their textbooks. He felt anger rise immediately – what on earth were these boys up to? Had Keating lost control of them so quickly, and so completely? He yanked the door open with an indignant “What the hell is going on here?!” The boys looked around at him guiltily, as well they should – did the Dalton boy just stuff a wad of paper into his mouth? He was just about to demand an explanation when Keating emerged from the side room with a wastebasket and a jovial “I don’t hear enough rip-“ he cut himself off when he saw his visitor. “Mr. Keating.” McAllister said weakly, caught completely off guard. “Mr McAllister.” Keating echoed him, seemingly unperturbed by the circus that had taken over his classroom. McAllister swallowed, trying to regain his mental footing. “I’m sorry. I... I didn’t know you were here.” “I am” Keating’s smile turned a little mischievous. McAllister couldn’t help but return a weak smile of his own; he was already feeling off-balance, and Keating’s grin wasn’t helping. “Ah. Uh. So you are.” He realized he sounded rather out of sorts. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, backing out of the classroom and closing the door behind him.

  


Outside, he stood for a moment to catch his breath. What the hell was that? He should have been horrified at the anarchy he had just witnessed, but instead, he found himself intrigued. Keating’s voice wafted through the wall. “Keep ripping gentlemen. This is a battle, a war. And the casualties could be your hearts and souls.” Well, he certainly had a flair for the dramatic. McAllister wasn’t surprised, remembering the first time he’d seen the man, arms waving about as he conducted an imaginary orchestra.

  


“Now, in my class you will learn to think for yourselves again,” Keating went on. “You will learn to savor words and language. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.” McAllister frowned slightly at this. Did Keating really believe that? Did _he_? He thought he may have, once, when he was young, head filled with foolish dreams. But the realities of life had taught him otherwise. He remembered how bitter those lessons had been, and felt a pang of sympathy for the young men who still had to learn them.

  


Keating’s voice shifted into a dramatic tone, catching his attention again. He seemed to be quoting someone. Whitman? “‘O me, o life, of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life?’ Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” He paused, repeating again with emphasis: “That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.” Another pause. “What will your verse be?”

  


McAllister realises he’s been standing still for quite a while. “Really, George! Eavesdropping on Keating’s classes? You’re better than that!” he scolds himself in the privacy of his own mind as he hurries away. And yet.... And yet he can’t stop mulling over Keating’s speech, wondering why he had chosen to say those things; wondering why he felt as if it had been directed straight at him.

  


“What will your verse be?”

  


\---

  


Keating was pleased, if a little surprised, when McAllister sat down next to him at lunch. He’d been worried that the scene in his classroom earlier may have snuffed out their burgeoning friendship before it had really had a chance to take root. The older man had looked almost ready to faint with shock when Keating emerged from the storeroom, and the frown on his face as he backed out of the room had made Keating’s heart sink. The past few days had shown him that McAllister was indeed an anomaly among the Welton faculty, more’s the pity, and he hated the thought of alienating the one man who he could picture himself befriending.

  


He had forced his mind back to the class, throwing himself into his teaching with perhaps a bit more passion than he would usually have. He had to remind himself of what he believed. He would not, could not, be untrue to himself, even if that meant that his students would be the closest things to friends he would have.

  


He smiled at McAllister as they sat down, getting a small smile in return. “Quite an interesting class you gave today, Mr. Keating”. Oh, were they back to being formal with each other now? That was not good. “Sorry if I shocked you, Mr McAllister,” Keating replied with a smile. McAllister kept his eyes trained on the food he was dishing in. “Oh, there’s no need to apologize. It was very fascinating,” at this point McAllister finally looked up at him, “misguided though it was.” There was a certain emphasis to those last words. “You think so?” asked Keating, inviting him to elaborate. “You take a big risk by encouraging them to be artists, John. When they realize they're not Rembrandts, Shakespeares or Mozarts, they'll hate you for it.” “We’re not talking artists, George,” Keating corrected him, “We’re talking free thinkers.” “Free thinkers at seventeen?” Mc Allister asked, chuckling as if the suggestion were preposterous. “Funny,” Keating replied in an amused tone of voice. “I never pegged you as a cynic”.

  


McAllister turned thoughtful at that, blinked a few times, seeming taken aback by Keating’s comment. “Not a cynic... a realist. Show me the heart unfettered by foolish dreams, and I'll show you a happy man.” Keating considered this, wondered whether McAllister really believed it. Surely not? He retorted with a smile “But only in their dreams can men be truly free. 'Twas always thus, and always thus will be.” “Tennyson?” asked McAllister. “No, Keating,” he replied with a wink, and turned to his meal, gratified by the laugh that this got out of McAllister. Perhaps their friendship had not been damaged after all.

  


[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187976701@N07/49780394658/in/dateposted-public/)

(Link to art: <https://sani-86.tumblr.com/image/611544085302525952>)

  


\---

  


_That evening_

McAllister sighed, letting his book drop down to his lap. He had been trying to read, hoping to distract himself, but his mind kept circling back to the scene he had witnessed in Keating’s classroom that morning and their subsequent discussion at lunch. A cynic, John had called him. Was that really how he came across? He considered himself a realist, certainly. He meant what he’d said, too – foolish dreams had never brought him anything good. He had been full of dreams once – romantic notions, grand ideas. But those ships had been sunk years ago, dashed to pieces on the rocks of real life. He had learned the way of the world, the shape of it: keep your expectations reasonable, keep your heart carefully under lock and key, play the role that was set out for you, and the misery will pass you by. _But_ , said that treacherous voice he had worked so hard to silence, _an absence of misery is not exactly the same thing as being happy, now, is it?_

  


“Damn Keating and his poetic quotes,” muttered McAllister as he slammed the book shut. He had been content with his life. Sure, it was nothing spectacular, but he had his job, his books, his routine. He had been running in an accustomed groove for the better part of a quarter century now, perfectly comfortable, and suddenly one crazy man was rocking his boat. How was that possible?

  


He put the book down on the bedside table, turned off the lamp, and sunk back into the pillow. Alone in the dark, there was nowhere to hide from the truth: he was lonely. He had been lonely for so long that he hadn’t even been able to put a name to it; it had simply become a part of him as year after interminable year passed by without so much as a friend. And suddenly, this crazy man with his warm smiles and philosophic musings was brushing up against his walls, cracking the veneer and taking a peek inside. McAllister smiled to himself in the dark. Perhaps this could be a good thing, after all. The ache of loneliness was sharp, but for the first time he saw a chance to cure the disease, as it were, rather than just sticking on a bandage and ignoring it. Hope, warm as a smile, wrapped around his heart as he drifted off to sleep.

  


  



	5. Chapter 4 - A Trip Down Memory Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn some of the history of the Dead Poets.
> 
> Also, poetry. Because this is the DPS, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I assumed the DPS was going well before Keating’s time. Because I can, and it works for my story.

The monthly staff meeting had just ended, and everyone was gathering their things and hurrying out of the door. Why Nolan insisted on having these meetings on a Saturday morning, he would never understand, McAllister mused to himself. Clearly, the man had no life outside the school. Then again, he supposed, neither did he.

“Oh, Mr McAllister, before you go,” the school secretary piped up, “a package arrived for you.” She handed him a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and bearing a New York postmark. “Thank you, Miss Rose,” he said, taking the package. He smiled when he saw the return address. What an unexpected treat! “Who’s sending you presents in the mail?” Keating’s voice piped up behind him. “What makes you think it’s a present?” McAllister asked. “Oh, come on,” Keating said, “you look like a kid on Christmas morning.” “Okay, you’re right,” McAllister chuckled. “It’s from an old family friend. She and her husband run a bookshop down in Brooklyn, and every once in a while, she sends me something that she thinks I’ll like. I can’t wait to see what this is. ”Well, go on then, open it,” Keating urges. “You’ve got me curious too, now.”

McAllister had been planning to peruse his gift in private later that evening, but he was spurred on by Keating’s excited grin. Everyone else had left the room by now; it was just the two of them. He carefully peeled away the paper and slid the book out. “Oh, it’s TS Eliot,” he said, delighted. Keating grimaced. “I never liked him much. Far to... bleak for my taste.” “Bleak?” McAllister chuckled. “I’m guessing you read Wasteland.” “Hmm, and the Quartets.” “Ever heard his poems about cats? They’re quite charming. Or this one,” McAllister had been paging through the book as they spoke, and now he started reading “What seas, what shores, what grey rocks and what islands. What water lapping the bow. And scent of pine, and the wood thrush singing through the fog. What images return, O, my daughter.” He paused after this line, smiled. “Okay, so it’s a still a bit bleak, but isn’t it beautiful? The way words flow like music, like the sighing of the wind through the trees.”

Keating was watching him with an inscrutable expression. He felt suddenly flustered, realising he’d gotten a bit carried away in his recitation. He was just about to apologise, excuse himself somehow, when Keating said softly, “Maybe you have a point. Go on?” Clearing his throat, McAllister resumed his reading. “Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning Death. Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning Death.” “Definitely bleak,” Keating interrupted with a snort. “Oh, shush,” McAllister scolded jokingly. “At least listen all the way through before you start making judgements.” Keating shrugged in acknowledgement, gestured for McAllister to continue as he sat back in his chair. He didn’t say another word until the poem finished. “Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken. The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships. What seas, what shores, what granite islands towards my timbers. And wood thrush calling through the fog, my daughter.” McAllister closed the book gently and turned to Keating, meaning to ask his opinion. The question died on his lips when he saw Keating’s face. He was leaning his elbow on his knee, chin resting in his hand, and his expression was enraptured. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

Something warm bloomed in McAllister’s chest at the praise, and he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “I told you,” he said, flustered. “Eliot has quite a way with words.” “Um. Yes. Eliot, yes,” said Keating, looking like a man surfacing from a daydream. “Perhaps you can read me some more some time.” “I’d like that,” McAlister said shyly.

Keating suddenly sprang up out of his chair, picking up his notes and making to leave. “We should head to lunch” he said. “Nolan will have our heads if we walk in late.” “Of course,” replied McAllister. “I’ll just go put this in my room. Meet you there.”

As they walked off in opposite directions, both men found themselves wondering why their hearts were racing.

\---

_A few days later_

Keating handed McAllister a cup of tea, then settled into his chair. They both had the evening free, and they were finally getting around to listening to some of the music Keating had offered the day they met. A record of Chopin’s nocturnes was playing in the background, and a comfortable silence had settled. The two men had taken to sharing a drink or a meal at some point every day, drawn to each other by the comfortable rapport that they shared with no-one else.

“You won’t believe what the lads got up to yesterday.” Keating said. “Hmm?” said McAllister, sipping his tea. ‘The lads’ always referred to the senior class; Keating seemed to have taken quite a shine to them. Their antics in class were a common topic of conversation between the two friends.

“They’d dug out my old yearbook from the library. That picture, yikes!” Keating gives a mock shudder. “Of course, they were full of questions about the Dead Poets Society.” McAllister perked up at that. “Oh, were you a Dead Poet, then?” “You knew them?” Keating asks, surprised. “More than just knew them, I was one!” “No way!” Keating is delighted at this information. McAllister hadn’t struck him as the type to be involved in an unapproved society; he was so proper and rule-abiding, with his bow ties and his stuffy Latin texts. But then he remembered the older man’s face as he read from TS Eliot. He suddenly wondered what the young George had been like. Had he been a daredevil, a romantic? How much had he changed? Sometimes, when McAllister was laughing at a joke, there was a sparkle in his eyes that hinted at a mischievous streak buried under all that propriety.

Grinning, Keating began to quote, “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately”. He paused, arching an eyebrow at McAllister, baiting him. “I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life,” McAllister continued, taking the bait. "To put to rout all that was not life,” Keating picked up the thread again, and continued speaking as McAllister joined him in reciting the final line, “And not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.” Their voices faded into silence; each man caught up in his own memories. Keating thought he could see a hint of sadness in his friend’s eyes, but before he could think of a way to ask about it, McAllister spoke up.

“I always wondered what happened to the Dead Poets. By the time I got back here as a teacher, there was no trace of it. I tried to ask, but nobody seemed to want to talk about it.” “Hah, yes,” Keating answered him. “I’d kept in touch with a few of the younger lads from school, and I heard there was a bit of drama the year after I left. I don’t know the details, but long story short, the Society was banned before the year was out.”

Keating looked over his shoulder conspirationally, as if there might be a spy listening in on them in his own room, and then leaned in and spoke in a secretive voice. “Don’t tell anyone, but the Poets may not be as dead as we think. You remember the book?” “Book?” “Yes, Five Centuries of Verse? The official meeting book? Well, thanks to the friend I was talking about earlier, it ended up in my hands once the Society was disbanded. And yesterday, I decided to pass it on to the next generation.” “You did what?!” McAllister burst out, incredulous. “I passed it on. To Neil Perry, to be exact.” “But... but... why? Why would you do that?” “Come on, George,” said Keating, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t you think those boys deserve some fun, some romance in their lives? Don’t you think they should also have the chance to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life?” Keating’s eyes were gleaming as he leaned forward in his chair, and McAllister seemed rather taken aback by his enthusiasm. “Well, I suppose. As long as they don’t end up choking on the bone, so to speak. Wouldn’t want any more unpleasantness.” “Nah,” Keating says, leaning back, “They’re sensible lads. Mostly. I’m sure they won’t get into any real trouble.”

Oh, how those words would come back to bite him.


	6. Chapter 5 - Beethoven con disederio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys enjoy the orchestra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is totally self-indulgent; I love playing Beethoven at full volume. Links to all the music is in the end notes. 
> 
> Also, more art (image and link in text)

“Oh, won’t you look at that.” Keating looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “The New York Philharmonic is performing in Montpelier next week.” “Hmm, unusual for them to come so far north.” McAllister replied distractedly. “I wonder what the occasion is.” “It doesn’t say,” Keating replied, looking closely at the advertisement, “but they’ll be performing Beethoven’s fifth.” He put the paper down decisively. “We should go!” McAllister laughed at the suggestion. “It’s a two-hour drive, you know. Even longer by train. And we do have responsibilities here, can’t just bunk off for an evening.” “We can see the lunchtime matinee on Sunday. Plenty of time to drive out there after breakfast, and we can be back in time for dinner. Come on, it will be fun to get out a bit,” he pleaded. And that was just unfair – how was anyone supposed to say no to those puppy dog eyes? “Okay, okay,” he conceded. “As long as you can square it with Nolan and get us a car. And you’ll have to drive.” Keating beamed. “Consider it done!”

\---

And then it was Sunday afternoon, and they were driving into Montpelier. Despite McAllister’s initial reluctance, he had been looking forward to the concert more and more with every passing day. It had been years since he’d seen a professional orchestra performing, and the New York Philharmonic was one of the best.

They arrived at the theatre, parked the car and went off in search of the box office to collect their tickets. It was still half an hour until the performance, and the auditorium doors were still shut. “How about a drink?” asked Keating, looking toward the bar. McAllister nodded. Why not? He never indulged at Welton – alcohol was not banned as such, but Nolan disapproved heavily, and it had never seemed worth risking his ire. But they weren’t at Welton now, were they? He could have a bit of fun. “Sounds good,” he agreed, and they made their way over to the bar. Keating surprised him by ordering champagne. McAllister laughed. “And this? Are we celebrating something that I don’t know about?” “Well, it seemed appropriately festive.” Keating’s eyes had that happy twinkle in them. “It’s not often we get to enjoy a day out with good company and excellent music.” McAllister couldn’t argue with this sentiment, so he simply tilted his glass to Keating and said, “To good times, then.” “And to good friends,” Keating replied, clinking their glasses together.

Soon afterward, their conversation was interrupted by the chiming of a bell, indicating that the performance would start soon. They shuffled along the row to their seats – Keating, bless him, had managed to get them seats in the middle of the front row of the balcony, the perfect spot to see and hear everything happening on the stage. McAllister breathed deeply, relishing that particular scent that you only find in theatres. God, how he had missed it. Once again, he found himself grateful for Keating. Sometimes he wondered what he had been doing with himself before the man showed up.

The house lights dimmed as the conductor introduced himself and announced the programme. It was a celebration of Beethoven, starting with the fifth symphony. As the dramatic notes of the introduction swept over them, McAllister glanced over at Keating to judge his reaction. He had to bite back a smile at what he saw: Keating was sitting with his eyes closed, smiling faintly, his right hand making gently movements over his lap as if he were conducting the orchestra. No doubt, if they were in his study rather than in a crowded auditorium, Keating would be humming along and swinging his arms as dramatically as that first day McAllister had seen him. He shook his head, smiling fondly at his friend’s eccentricity, and settled back to enjoy the music.

They stayed in their seats during the interval, discussing the music. The second half kicked off with the third movement of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto Op. 61. McAllister found himself leaning forward, mesmerised by the movement of the first violinist’s hands. The violin sonata was followed by a beautiful rendition of the Coriolan overture. Even the conductor was losing himself in the performance, swaying and gesturing like a man possessed. Finally, as the programme wound down, a young lady in a long black gown situated herself behind the piano. As she played the opening notes of the Moonlight Sonata, he closed his eyes and smiled. This had always been one of his favourite pieces. He was surprised when the strings section joined in, violin and cello picking up the mournful melody. It was hauntingly beautiful. He simply sat back let the music wash over him, caught up in the ebb and flow of it.

The audience burst into applause as the final notes died away, jolting McAllister from his almost dreamlike state. He opened his eyes and turned to his companion, only to find Keating already looking at him with an amused expression. “Looked like you were enjoying that,” he grinned as he clapped enthusiastically. “Very much,” agreed McAllister, joining in the standing ovation. He could not remember the last time he had felt so much sheer, unadulterated joy.

On the spur of the moment, they decided to have a late lunch (or was it an early dinner?) in Montpelier. They lingered over the meal, talking and laughing, neither wanting the day to end quite yet. The sun was low in the sky when they arrived back at Welton, relaxed and happy after their outing. As they mounted the steps to the entrance, Keating looked back over his shoulder, and halted. “Just look at that,” he breathed, almost reverently. McAllister turned to look, and had to stifle a gasp. The sun had reached that exact spot above the horizon that transformed it into a ball of red fire peeking through the trees. The clouds were bands of rose and gold slashed across the grey sky, glowing with an otherworldly light. The two friends stood, mesmerised, until the glowing orb of the sun finally dipped below the horizon, watched as Venus, then Jupiter blinked on. “Beautiful,” murmured McAllister, and then realised he sounded just like Keating after the TS Eliot poem. They smiled at each other, feeling blessed to have shared so much joy in a single day. Keating placed his hand briefly on McAllister’s arm. “Thank you for joining me today, George. It was... wonderful.” He gave a quick squeeze, then turned to go into the building.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187976701@N07/49781264242/in/dateposted-public/)

(Art: <https://sani-86.tumblr.com/image/611736074457333760>)

\---

In the days and weeks that followed, McAllister found himself settling into a new routine: his familiar rhythm of lessons, meals, school activities and quiet evenings reading shifted effortlessly to accommodate evenings listening to music and talking about nonsense, free periods drinking tea and laughing at Keating’s retellings of his antics, and even the odd weekend trip to town to see a play or a performance by the local high school’s orchestra. McAllister couldn’t remember the last time his life had been so... full. He couldn’t fathom why the younger man kept seeking out his company, but he wasn’t about to question it, lest Keating realise he could do much better than spend all his free time with an old fuddy-duddy like himself.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? He knew himself – knew he wasn’t fun, or interesting, or remarkable in any way. And John... John was all those things. Charming, clever, scathingly witty (but not cruel, never cruel, no matter the provocation). He could listen to him talking for hours, watch his eyes twinkle with mischief, soften with kindness, light up with mirth. Those blue eyes spoke with an eloquence that even Shakespeare could only dream of.

McAllister stopped his train of thought right there. He was on his way to the dining room for lunch, where Keating would undoubtedly be waiting, and he was terrified that his thoughts would be written on his face for everyone to see. Not that anyone ever had, before. But John was unusually perceptive. Sometimes he felt as if those gentle eyes could see right into his soul, and he’d let them, wouldn’t even want to hide...

No! Stop it! There was no way he could let himself go there. John was his friend, and he wouldn’t risk losing him. No, no, no. He’d promised himself, years and years ago, that he would never, ever go there again. It never ended well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YouTube links for all the music:  
> 1) Fifth Symphony: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv2WJMVPQi8  
> 2) Violin Concerto (third movement: Rondo Allegro): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dbOIkYtafw  
> 3) Coriolan Overture: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvn2oGyji8s (Leonard Bernstein is conducting here – he’s a treat to watch!)  
> 4 )Moonlight Sonata, first movement: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hu7hscHkfPw (this is usually a piano solo piece, but I love the arrangement for orchestra!)  
> (PS - does anyone know how to turn these into hyperlinks???)


	7. Chapter 6 - To yawp or not to yawp?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. K has some thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after the YAWP class. It's super short, so have two updates today :)

Keating beamed to himself as he cleaned the words off the blackboard, chuckling when the duster obliterated the “YAWP”. He felt like yawping himself, after Todd’s performance in class. He hoped, oh how he hoped, that Todd would remember that moment of triumph, his classmates’ applause echoing in the room. He had a bit of a soft spot for the timid young man, so turned in on himself, so scared to show anything of himself to the world. Poor kid really seemed to believe that he didn’t have anything of value to offer, when Keating could clearly see the brilliant mind hiding under the shy façade. He was glad to have had a part in peeling back that mask, and showing Todd’s friends what lay beneath. He was glad Todd had ended up being roommates with Neil – perhaps Neil’s warm friendliness and puckish sense of humour would be just the thing to draw Todd out of himself.

His thoughts meandered on, and didn’t take long to settle on his own newest friend. He smiled, thinking how quickly they’d fallen into easy companionship. He suspected that that was unusual for George – as far as Keating could tell, he wasn’t particularly friendly with anyone else on the staff, and never had been. Sometimes he sensed a wariness in his friend, as if he was filtering his words before he said them aloud. It was happening less and less, though, so Keating dismissed it as the inevitable effects of spending most of his life under the watchful, judgemental eye of Welton. It warmed his heart to think that George trusted him enough to let those defences down with him. He’d always been an open-book sort of man himself, preferred to spend his energy enjoying life rather than keeping up any sort of pretence. Getting others to drop their masks and be themselves was something of a passion of his. Experience had taught him that people tended to bury their most interesting character traits under layers of insecurity or social acceptability, and he’d never yet regretted digging underneath to the core of it.

He thought about George again, how he’d seemed so proper when he first met him, even a bit uptight. But there had been a certain softness in his eyes that hinted at something else, something Keating found himself desperately curious to discover. And he had been right, hadn’t he? He’d found it surprisingly easy to draw the older man out, letting him peek beneath the surface to discover the soft heart and sparkling wit underneath. They had quickly settled into a comfortable sort of familiarity, the kind usually reserved for family or lifelong friends. The kind of friendship that even Keating, for all his exuberance and charm, hadn’t experienced in years. Yes, coming back to Welton had been an excellent choice. He finally had a best friend again. And if he sometimes found his affection drifting beyond what could strictly be considered friendship... well, no-one needed to know.


	8. Chapter 7 - "It's God!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charlie puts his foot in it, and Mr. K deals with the fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not clear - this takes off after Charlie's "phone call from God"

The atmosphere at Welton was thick enough to cut with a knife. As if the article in the school paper hadn’t been enough (and it would have been – Nolan had been incandescent with fury), the Dalton boy had to go pull that stupid stunt in assembly. McAllister shook his head at the folly of youth. Maybe he’d been right to question John’s idea of resurrecting the Dead Poets.

Currently, he was striding down the hall, looking for his friend. Keating had gone pale when Charlie answered his ‘phone call from God’, and had looked agitated as he hurried out of the assembly hall, carefully avoiding eye contact. McAllister eventually found him in his classroom, pacing back and forth and muttering to himself. His hair was in disarray, as if he’d been running his hands through it. McAllister opened the door, causing Keating to jump in surprise. “Damn it, George! Knock, won’t you? Nearly gave me a heart attack!” Keating snapped. McAllister must have looked taken aback, because Keating’s expression immediately softened. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, his tone conciliatory. “I’m just... having a bit of a moment. Didn’t mean to take it out on you,” he continued, looking apologetic now. “Quite alright, don’t worry about it,” McAllister said reassuringly. Silence fell, neither man sure of what to say. 

“So. Um. That was something,” McAllister finally said, deciding that he had to address the elephant in the room. “You could say that,” Keating said with a frustrated sort of laugh. “I can’t believe Charlie could be so reckless. Doesn’t he know what’s at stake? Throwing away his education, his future, for the sake of a laugh? God!” Keating was starting to pace again. “And you know what’s the worst? It’s my fault. I started it with the whole Dead Poets thing. Just couldn’t leave the past in the past, could I? Me and my stupid ideas.” 

McAllister reached out and placed a hand on Keating’s arm as he walked past. “Whoa now, John. You can’t seriously think you’re to blame?” “No? You said it, way back when I first gave Neil the book: they managed to choke on the bone.” “Yes, they. They. Charlie. Not you.” McAllister spoke soothingly. “You can’t blame yourself for what Charlie did. They’re teenage boys; recklessness is almost part of the definition. And Charlie’s just a magnet for chaos, you know that; I bet he would have gotten himself into trouble one way or another without any help from you.” Keating seemed to be calming down, so McAllister continued without a pause. “And think of the good you’ve done. You inspired Neil to try out for that play, and he’s practically glowing with the joy of it. And that new kid, Todd? He practically worships the ground you walk on. You’re doing good, John. You’re the best thing that’s happened around here in years.” By this point, Keating had stilled completely, the ghost of a smile on his face. He was looking at McAllister with an expression that was unreadable, almost... tender? McAllister suddenly realized his hand was still on Keating’s arm, and he dropped it like he’d been burned, suddenly embarrassed. “Ah. For the boys, I mean. Um. Best thing that’s happened for the boys.” He stuttered, looking away, feeling himself blush as his brain caught up with what he had just said. He turned around, looking for a distraction. “Tea. How about a cup of tea? Maybe a smoke? Just the thing after all that drama,” he babbled, making his way to the side room off the classroom. “Sure,” agreed Keating, following him. 

Not long afterward, they were both crammed into the tiny room, teacups in hand and McAllister puffing on his pipe. The awkward moment from earlier had passed, and they were laughing just like always over some silly story from Keating’s school days. McAllister was glad that the tension had dissipated, and his friend seemed to be back to his usual self. But of course, Nolan had to barge in and ruin the moment. As usual, the headmaster completely ignored McAllister, and he was left standing in the side room as the other two men talked in the classroom.

He wasn’t eavesdropping, exactly, but it was hard not to overhear Nolan’s pompous speech. The man always talked loudly, as if he was doing the world a favor by sharing his opinions. “I'm hearing rumours, John, about some unorthodox teaching methods in your classroom,” Nolan was saying. “I’m not saying they’ve anything to do with the Dalton boy’s outburst...” Like hell you’re not! McAllister thought to himself. He felt a sense of dread, mingled with anger; would Nolan try to pin this on John? “Well, your reprimand made quite an impression, I'm sure,” came Keating’s voice, and McAllister had to stifle a chuckle at his friend’s sass. Fortunately, Nolan didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. He simply went on berating Keating for something he had seen in one of the man’s lessons. Was Nolan spying on Keating? How very unbecoming. But then he remembered bursting into a classroom full of boys ripping up their textbooks, and he had to admit that his friend had a way of drawing attention to himself. ”I always thought the idea of education was to learn to think for yourself.” Keating’s voice broke in on his thoughts; reminding him of the ‘not artists, George; free thinkers’ from weeks ago. “At these boys' ages?” Nolan burst out. “Not on your life! Tradition, John. Discipline. Prepare them for college, and the rest will take care of itself.” McAllister winced slightly, realizing how very nearly he had expressed the same sentiment. Now, the thought left a bad taste in his mouth. Had his world view really changed that much in such a short time? The truth was, he had never seen a group of students as motivated to learn as they were for John’s classes. And the magic seemed to spill over into the rest of their days; he had never known a group of students to be so cheerful. Had never known himself to be quite so cheerful.

Keating walked back into the side room, having seen Nolan out. “Ugh,” he commented. “I feel like I need to wash my brain out with soap after listening to that. Some things just never change, do they?” Keating’s shoulders were sagging now, his smile gone. “Well, I don’t know,” McAllister replied, wanting to cheer his friend up. “I imagine the lessons in this classroom are very different from what they used to be. Can you imagine Nolan climbing on desks or reciting Shakespeare like a cowboy from a Western film?” Both men snorted at the mental image of Nolan going full ham actor during a Shakespeare reading. “See,” McAllister went on. “You are changing things. Maybe just on a small scale, one hour at a time for a handful of boys, but you are.” “Thank you, George,” Keating smiled at him, then turned serious again. “I’ll have to go talk to the boys, won’t I?” “Yes, you probably should. They respect you; they’ll listen to you. I’m sure you’ll make more of an impression than Nolan’s reprimand.” McAllister waggled his eyebrows, emphasizing this last word and drawing another chuckle from his friend. “Really, John,” he said with a chuckle of his own, “You’re lucky that Nolan can’t recognize sarcasm even if it bites him in the face.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nolan is a douche, pass it on.


	9. Chapter 8 - Neil is... not okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best and worst night of Neil Perry's life, as lived by our favorite teachers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kicks off after Neil’s discussion with Keating, after his father found out about the play and told him to quit.

Keating closed the door behind Neil as he left. He dragged a hand down over his face, sighing. His heart broke for the young man; he had looked so trapped, so despairing. Keating had given him the best advice he could: talk to your father. Surely no parent would be so heartless as to deny their own child a chance of happiness.

As he turned back to sit at his desk, his eye went back to the photo Neil had commented on. Laura, cello in hand grinning at the camera. His almost-fiance, waiting for him in London. _‘How can you stand being here?’_ Neil had asked. _‘I love teaching.’_ It was... not a lie, but not the whole truth either. He would barely even admit the whole truth to himself, let alone to someone else. The _‘I don’t want to be anywhere else’_ was perhaps closer to the truth. Because, if he were honest, he hadn’t needed to come to Welton at all, certainly not to be able to teach. He’d had a perfectly wonderful teaching job in London, a comfortable apartment, a group of friends he enjoyed spending time with. Even a beautiful girlfriend who would love to be his wife. On paper, his life had been ideal, and he’d given it all up to come halfway across the globe to a stuffy old boarding school where he knew no-one and was hemmed in by rules and tradition on every side. He knew it didn’t add up, no matter how you looked at it.

The truth was, he’d fled England like a man escaping from prison, all logic abandoned in the urgency of flight. He’d felt trapped in London, caught in a spider’s web of his own making, its strands pulled tighter as year after interminable year passed. He had just berated Neil for playing the part of the dutiful son for his father, but he had been doing the exact same thing, hadn’t he? Playing the part of the pillar of society: respectable job, respectable friends, respectable girlfriend whom he would marry sooner rather than later if she had any say in it. And he hadn’t wanted any of it.

So when his old professor from Cambridge had mentioned the position at Welton, it had felt like a sign, a chance to go back and do things right this time. In some strange reversal of fate, he had felt he could breathe easier in the stifling atmosphere of Welton than he had been able to in years. It was not just the physical distance from London, it was the memories that permeated the place. He had strolled through the grounds and buildings that first day, remembering all the antics he had gotten up to with the Dead Poets, and had felt long-buried pieces of himself come back to life like the first flowers after the winter. He had smiled, deeply, genuinely, for the first time in months. Here, he could just be himself, and no-one would know the difference.

He turned back to the letter he had been writing. He’d made up his mind that he wouldn’t be going back to London any time soon.

\---

_The evening after Neil’s play_

Keating left the theater with his spirits soaring, the lads’ exuberant “YAWP!” still sounding in his ears. Neil had been... incredible. The boy was obviously born for the stage. His eyes darted through the crowds leaving the theater, searching, until he spotted Neil’s dark coat. Lunging forward, he grabbed the boy by the arm. “Neil! Neil! You have the gift! What a performance; you left even me speechless! You have to stay with-“ He was interrupted by Mr. Perry yanking Neil away with a brash “Get in the car.” Oh. Oh, no wonder Neil had looked so solemn throughout Keating’s short speech. Mr. Perry rounded on him. “Keating, you stay the hell away from my son,” he growled.

Keating felt his spirits deflate like a punctured inner-tube, the joy he had been feeling only moments before draining away in an instant. Neil had lied to him. He’d promised Keating that he’d spoken to his father, that his father had agreed to let him finish the play, but clearly that was not the case. Through his shock, he saw Charlie going after Mr, Perry, and grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t make it any worse than it is”. The sheer fury in Mr. Perry’s eyes had unnerved him, and he didn’t want any of the other boys in the firing line. He made eye contact with Neil through the window of the car, and his heart broke at the anguish he saw in the boy’s eyes. _Hang in there, Neil_ , he tried to communicate with a gaze. _You’ll get through this. We’re here for you_. Keating watched, worried, as the car disappeared down the street. “Captain?” Charlie’s voice pulled his attention back to the here and now. “Is it okay if we walk back?” Keating nodded at him, then turned his gaze back to the street, as if he could pull that car back through sheer force of will. He had to fight back tears when he imagined the scene Neil would face at home. After a minute, he forced himself to turn away, got back in the car, and headed back to Welton with a heavy heart.

\---

McAllister was just about to return to his room after chasing the last boys out of the library before bedtime when he heard the front door opening. Assuming it was Keating and the lads returning from the theater, he turned to the foyer to greet them. “Evening, gentlemen,” he started as he walked into the foyer. “How was the pl-“ he stumbled into silence as he took in the sight of the boys in from of him. He had expected excitement, exuberance, rambunctious laughter – but a somber air hung over the bedraggled group. Todd looked worried; Charlie looked furious. Neil... was nowhere to be seen. “What on earth is going on? Why are you all covered with snow? Wasn’t Mr. Keating driving you?” “We walked,” snapped Charlie, and pushed past, heading down the hallway. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on? Where’s Mr. Keating?” McAllister demanded, worry beginning to overtake his confusion. Meeks spoke up. “Mr. Keating stayed behind a bit; he should be here soon. Would you excuse us, please sir? It’s been a rough night.” “Of course,” answered McAllister, still worried but taking pity on the boys. “Off to bed you go.”

He hung around in the foyer, waiting for Keating. Was Neil with him? Before long, he saw the car’s headlights turn into the drive. He watched as the car drove up alongside the building, watched as it was parked. After a while the driver’s side door opened and Keating emerged, coat and scarf wrapped tight against the falling snow. He took in his friend’s stooped posture and downcast eyes as he climbed the steps to the front door, and the worm of worry began to gnaw at him again. Still no Neil. “John?” he said, as Keating walked into the building and past him without so much as a glance. Keating startled, as if he hadn’t been aware of the other man’s presence. “Oh, sorry George, didn’t see you there.” Keating said distractedly. He had a defeated air about him. “What’s going on, John? Where’s Neil? I saw the other boys come in, but he wasn’t with them. Is something wrong?” “You could say that,” Keating said with a humorless laugh. “Come on, I’ll tell you about it over a cup of tea. I’m frozen to the bone.”

McAllister could see that his friend was out of sorts, so he followed him to his room, made a pot of tea while Keating changed out of his wet coat. Chamomile, since it was supposed to be soothing, and Keating’s nerves looked pretty ragged. Once they were each sitting with a steaming cup in hand, McAllister simply raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry. Sighing, Keating answered the unspoken question. “Neil’s father showed up at the theater. Dragged Neil home with him. He was furious.” “Oh,” said McAllister, understanding dawning. “You don’t think... Do you think Neil will be okay?” “I don’t know. I think he’s in proper trouble this time.” There was a tense, worried pause, and the Keating continued softly. “He lied to me, George. Told me his father was allowing him to finish the play.” McAllister’s heart ached at the look on his friend’s face. “And now Perry is blaming me for Neil’s disobedience. Told me to stay the hell away from his son.” Keating’s voice gained a bitter edge as he repeated Mr. Perry’s words. He swallowed the last of his tea, putting the cup down on the table absentmindedly. McAllister didn’t know what to say to comfort his friend as he stared into the distance, so he simply laid his hand on the younger man’s forearm and gave a reassuring squeeze, hoping it would somehow convey the _‘I’m here for you, I believe in you, I’m on your side’_ that he couldn’t find the words to express.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Keating’s mouth. “He was magnificent, you know. That boy was born to act. He was shining with it, like something in his soul had caught fire.” At this, he finally looked his friend in the eye, the smile becoming a bit surer, although still sad around the edges. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” “And it’s all because of you,” McAllister said. “Without your inspiration, he would never have tried it.” McAllister wasn’t even trying to hide the fondness in his eyes now, and Keating looked at him gratefully, his true smile breaking through for the first time. “Thank you, George. I... just... thank you” he said.

McAllister looked down, flustered. “Well, I suppose we’d better be off to bed then,” he said, getting up out of his chair. “It’s been a long evening, and I’m sure you’re worn out after all that.” Keating seemed to realize his own exhaustion at these words, and bit back a yawn. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll phone Neil in the morning, make sure he’s okay. Nothing more to be done about it tonight.” “Quite. Let me know when you’ve spoken to him, okay?” “Of course.” “Sleep well, John.” McAllister said as he walked out the door. “You too,” Keating said, looking at his friend with a smile that was altogether too soft. “Thank you.” The door clicked shut, and McAllister made his way down the hall to his own room.


	10. Chapter 9 - The darkest day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all knew this was coming. Sorry.
> 
> (cw - mention of suicide)

Keating was awoken by a knock on his door. Glancing at the curtains, he noticed that it still seemed to be dark outside. Blearily, he looked at his wristwatch. 5 am?

He heard the handle of the front door turn, and the door creak open. He must have forgotten to lock it last night. “John?” George? What would he be wanting at this time of morning? Keating heard his friend’s hesitant footsteps in the front room. “In here,” he called, voice rough with sleep. He switched on the bedside lamp, blinking at the sudden light, and stood up, looking around dazedly for his bedroom slippers. He froze when he caught sight of McAllister’s face – he was white as a sheet, eyes red-rimmed, chin trembling. “George?” he asked, concern etching his tone. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s... It’s Neil.” Keating felt his insides turn to ice, recalling their conversation earlier that night. “Nolan just got a call,” McAllister continued, his voice quavering. “He...” he swallowed. “He’s... dead.” His voice broke on the last word. Keating felt the colour drain from his own face, taking all his strength with it. He sank back onto the bed behind him. “No,” he croaked, voice strained. “No, that can’t be... he can’t...” McAllister sat down on the bed next to him, put a hand on his shoulder. He looked like he was barely keeping himself together. “He shot himself.” The words hit Keating like a punch to the gut. “I... I’m... so sorry.” McAllister whispered, a tear finally breaking free and running down his cheek.

Keating was frozen, trying to make sense of the words he was hearing. “Dead,” he repeated dumbly. Then, “Shot himself?” He heard his own voice, understood the words and the order they were said in, but couldn’t make them fit together with Neil’s face in his mind. “Dead,” he repeated again, like a man in a trance.

McAllister didn’t speak again, just bit his lip, nodded. Keating felt an arm snake across his shoulders. He let himself be pulled into a sideways hug, resting his head on his friend’s shoulder. Then the tears came as the words finally hit their mark. He didn’t bother wiping them away, didn’t even make a sound, just sat silently weeping as the grief washed over and through him.

The two men stayed sitting next to each other as the light of dawn filtered into the room. A knock on the door finally roused them from their stupor. They ignored it, but the knocking continued. Keating got up, wiped a hand across his face as he made his way to the door. He was in no mood to talk to anyone, but the early morning visitor was not going away. Perhaps it’s one of the lads, he thought, and hurried through to the front room. He opened the door, only to be confronted with Mr. Nolan. The headmaster took one look at his face, then said, “I take it you’ve heard about the Perry boy, then?” Keating could only not dumbly, appalled at the coldness in the man’s voice. “There will be a full inquiry,” Nolan went on. “You may be sure that we will get to the bottom of this.” On paper, words may have been reassuring, but here was something decidedly threatening in Nolan’s tone. “Come see me in my office at nine.” He fixed Keating with a stare for a couple of seconds, then abruptly turned on his heel and marched off.

Keating shut the door and trudged back to the bedroom, flopped down with his hands over his eyes. He let out a heartfelt groan. “I need to go talk to the lads, don’t I,” he said, half to himself. “I think so,” replied McAllister. “I think they need their Captain.” McAllister gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, drawing a small, sad smile from the younger man. They knew each other well enough by now that no more words were needed.

\---

Keating sat at the desk in his classroom, watching the snow drift by outside the window. The grey chill outside echoed the mood in Welton’s corridors. His meeting with Nolan had not gone well. The headmaster hadn’t said it in so many words, but it was clear that he was being given the blame for Neil’s death. He looked around the room, knowing he would probably never teach there again. The ache of loss bloomed in his chest.

Suddenly restless, he got up from his chair and paced down the aisle between the desks. When he got to Neil’s desk, he paused. Opened the top, perhaps subconsciously hoping that he might find some part of the boy still there. Instead, his own book stared back at him: Five Centuries of Verse. He picked it up, feeling its familiar weight in his hands. Sinking down into the seat, he opened it up to the title page, ran his eyes over the familiar inscription. When he reached the words “...when I come to die,” a flood of grief overtook him. Neil, dead, before he had even had the chance to live. A sob welled up in his throat, raw and painful. He closed the book, couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. Then he laid his head down on his arms and wept, losing the tenuous grip he had been keeping on his emotions all morning. What did it matter now?

He didn’t even hear the door open or footsteps approaching, was completely unaware of the other man in the room until he felt a hand come to rest between his shoulder blades. Startled, he whipped his head around, and was relieved to see McAllister standing next to him, concern etched in every line of his face. Without thinking, he threw his arms around the older man, clinging to him like a drowning man clings to a life preserver, grief tearing out of him in great heaving sobs. McAllister stroked his hair, his back, made vague wordless soothing noises. After a few minutes, these started to have an effect, and his sobs calmed to quiet gasps. McAllister knelt down until he was eye to eye with Keating. “Let’s get you back to your room, hmm?” he suggested gently. Keating let himself be helped up, following his friend in a daze, not really knowing or caring what was going on around him. 

Once in his room, McAllister left him sitting on the bed and went to rummage around in the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water and a tumbler of whiskey. Keating took them without a word, swigged half the whiskey in a single gulp and grimaced as it burned down his throat. “What a mess,” he said dejectedly. “Neil’s gone. I’ll be gone soon.” McAllister felt a stab of grief at this. Losing Keating would hurt him even more than Neil’s death had. “I thought I was doing good, you know?” Keating says, looking up at his friend. “Making a difference. Helping them.” He sighs, takes another sip of whiskey. “Turns out, they would have been better off without me.”

McAllister couldn’t let that pass without comment. “John,” he says, taking the other man’s hands in his own and waiting for him to meet his eyes. “I’ve told you this before, and I’m telling you again: you’re the best thing that ever happened to those boys. Don’t you dare blame yourself.” “No,” Keating huffed “Nolan and Perry will do that for me.” McAllister couldn’t really argue with that, so instead he said, “Well, we can deal with that if and when it happens. Right now, I think you need some rest.” “It’s barely noon,” Keating protested weakly. “Nevertheless, you look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.” Keating nodded, toed off his shoes and turned to settle on the bed. “Maybe you’re right.” He conceded. And then, uncertainly. “Will you stay here? I... I don’t want to be alone right now.” He seemed embarrassed at this admission. “Of course I will,” McAllister replied reassuringly. Truth be told, leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. He moved a few books from the chair by Keating’s bedside and settled down, keeping one to read. “I’ll be right here”.

After a few minutes of silence, Keating’s voice pipes up again. “Will you read to me?” When McAllister looked up in surprise, Keating explained, “My mind is a mess, I keep seeing Neil’s face in the car last night, keep hearing Nolan’s voice. I just need to focus on something else for a while.” “Very well,” replied McAllister with a fond smile. He opened the book in his hand, and started reading out loud. After about ten minutes he looked up to take a sip of water, only to notice that Keating had dozed off. His face had softened in sleep, freed from the worry and grief that had been staining it since he came back from the theater the previous night. McAllister allowed himself to gaze at Keating’s face for a while; he thought he had never seen a more beautiful man in his life. Unable to stop himself, he reached out a hand to stroke Keating’s hair back from his brow. Keating didn’t even stir. Impulsively, McAllister leaned down and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “Rest well, dear boy,” he murmured, feeling his cheeks pink. Then he sat back with his book and continued his vigil.


	11. Chapter 10 - Saying goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Keating leaves Welton. Two hearts break.

Keating was busy packing up his room when movement caught his eye outside the window. He looked up, and was faintly amused to see the lads making their way down the pathway, McAllister strolling along sedately behind them. Every few steps he would lift a hand to point out something, the boys’ gazes following his gestures.

Keating smiled mournfully when he realized that everything he loved about Welton, everything he would be sad to leave behind, was outlined in his window frame at that moment. He cared for those boys like a father, like an older brother. And as for George... he had long since admitted to himself that he loved him more than he had ever loved a friend – more, even, than the woman he had been about to propose to.

Sometimes he allowed himself to dream of a world where his love would not need to be a secret; where he could say ‘let me take you to dinner, let me hold your hand and gaze into those mesmerizing ocean-eyes, let me kiss you goodnight and write you love letters and live my life by your side...’

But it could never be. He knew his friend too well to risk it. George had loosened up a lot in the last few months – teaching a class outside in the snow, who could have predicted that? – but this would be going too far. A man loving a man broke every rule of the world they lived in, and he was sure that if he showed even a hint of his affections it would send George running for the hills. No, he would keep this secret love to himself, be content with the friendship he was offered. He wouldn’t risk losing the best friend he had ever had.

As if McAllister could sense his gaze, he suddenly turned and looked up at the window. Keating’s sad smile was reflected on his friend’s face. McAllister raised a hand in a greeting, a salute; Keating returned the gesture fondly. Then the Latin teacher turned back to his class and resumed his lesson. Keating watched them until they rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

\----

“Quite the interesting class you gave today, Mr. McAllister.” McAllister spun around to see Keating leaning in the doorway of his room, eyes twinkling with mischief as he teased his friend. “Yes, it seems your madness is catching,” McAllister retorted drily, earning a laugh from the other man. “Yes, well. You might want to be careful with that. Didn’t end too well for me.”

The reminder of Keating’s immanent departure sobered them. “You all packed, then?” McAllister enquired. “Just about. I’ll be leaving on the afternoon train tomorrow.” “So soon,” McAllister croaked, sudden sadness stealing his voice. “Hmm,” replied Keating vaguely. “No sense in hanging around here, is there?” _No, that’s not true_ , McAllister wanted to protest; S _tay, please, I want you here. Could I be enough reason for you to stay a while?_ Out loud, he said, “I suppose not. Where will you go? Back to London?” “Nah, there’s nothing for me there. I’m going to visit my parents, stay there at least until the new year. After that, who knows.”

After a few more minutes of small talk, Keating stood up. “I’d better go finish packing, or I’ll be busy all night. See you at dinner.” And with that, he was gone. McAllister sighed. Oh, how he would miss him.

\---

Keating was a mess of conflicting emotions as he stepped outside the doors of Welton for the last time. Melancholy – the grief of loss, the sting of self-doubt – was there, just like it had been since that fateful night. But at the same time, a sense of pride had welled up in him at the way the lads had chosen to greet him. Todd, in particular – the shy young man had come such a long way. He felt hopeful for them; he was sure, now, that they would find their way in the world and, indeed, make their lives extraordinary. And the look on Nolan’s face – he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself.

He turned back to look at the old building for the last time, and as fate would have it, George was looking through the window of his classroom. Was he watching him leave? Surely not, it had to be a coincidence. Just then, his friend raised a hand in greeting, just like he had done the previous day on the path. Keating raised his own hand in return, forcing a smile as a new emotion pierced his heart – regret. Regret for words not said, for roads not taken. It was too late now. Swallowing back the tears that were burning his throat, he forced himself to turn away and trudge to the car.

\---

McAllister watched as Keating turned and walked away, looking like the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. He had been walking with his usual jaunty gait when he left the building, had even looked like he was chuckling to himself. What could have caused such a sudden shift in his mood?

It couldn’t have been the greeting they just exchanged, could it? McAllister would never admit it, but he had been purposely standing by the window, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Keating as he left. He had set his class to work translating a piece of text from Latin so that he would not have to be at the blackboard; his mind was not on his work and he knew he would be hopeless at teaching today. He was being ridiculous, he knew, acting like some sort of star-crossed lover, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Tomorrow, he would pull himself together and get on with his life; but for today, he could allow himself to just feel.

At the sight of the car pulling out, he felt his throat constrict, and he had to excuse himself under the pretense of needing the bathroom. He hid himself in a stall and just stood with his hands covering his face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he silently reprimanded himself. _You know this would happen. You know what happens when you allow yourself to love. It never ends well._

He stayed there until he calmed down, until he could force the tears back down and regain control of his breathing. He washed his face with cold water, wincing when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Pathetic.

By the time he returned to his classroom, it was empty. Had he really been gone that long? He hadn’t even heard the bell ring. That had been his last class for the day, and he was relieved to return to his rooms. He closed the door behind him, kicked off his shoes and sunk down on the bed with a sigh. He did not leave again until the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will make it better, I swear.


	12. Chapter 11 - Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. K is back home. He's not doing so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortish chapter today :(

Keating kept his promise to write to McAllister. He wrote almost every day. What he did not do – what he could not bring himself to do – was send those letters.

_Dear George,_ he would write, _Oh, how I wish I could address you as ‘my dearest George,’ or perhaps ‘my beloved.’_

_It’s almost Christmas,_ he wrote one day. _We went to see the carolers in the park. You would have loved it – the one soprano had a voice like an angel. I can just picture the way you would close your eyes and smile, that soft, indulgent smile you only ever wear when you think no-one is looking. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are in those moments? How much I want to reach out and stroke your cheek?_

Another time, he wrote, _my mother keeps asking me what happened with Laura. How am I supposed to answer that? How can I explain to my mother that I fell in love, deeper than I’ve ever been, and it eclipsed anything I ever felt for her, or anyone else? That the Juliet to my Romeo was not that beautiful woman, but an older man who looked like the very caricature of a Latin professor, who mesmerized me and made me laugh and gave me a sense of belonging I’ve never felt before? My heart breaks, because I can no more have my beloved than Romeo could._

At times, depression threatened to overwhelm him. Fortunately, his family seemed to assume it was the lingering trauma of Neil’s death – which was true, but it wasn’t the whole story, not by a long shot. _I am so alone;_ he wrote on one particularly bleak day. _I miss you, and I love you, and I can never, never speak of it. I must carry this ache in my chest, close to my heart, because it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. What right do I have to ask for your love? I can only imagine your disgust if you were to find out your friend (best friend, dare I hope?) has such deviant inclinations. That’s why I can never tell you. I would rather yearn from a distance, living off the scraps from your table, than lose you altogether._

On other days, his mood was a bit more cheerful. _Do you remember that one day we went walking in the woods?_ He reminisced. _I was enjoying the flaming colours of the trees and the last fall flowers, and you were insisting on naming everything in Latin. You’re so clever, you know? I could listen to you talk all day._ He cherished the memory of that day. In many ways it was a day like any other, but the seclusion of the woods and the simple joy of being outdoors on a crisp fall day had lent their walk a whimsical air. He remembered trading jokes and smiles, and grabbing onto each other’s hands when they negotiated a particularly rocky piece of the path. He remembered he had been reluctant to let go of George’s hand, and had been surprised that the other man didn’t seem too eager to pull away either. And so they’d walked hand in hand for several minutes, neither of them mentioning it. _What I wouldn’t give to be able to walk in the woods with you again, hand in hand. To walk like that in the streets; show the whole damn world how much I adore you._

Keating put down his pen; rubbed his fingers over his eyes and then ran his hand down his face. This was getting ridiculous. How long could he go on like this? He knew he would have to get on with his life soon, and that meant making a choice: put his cards on the table and risk having his heart broken, or walk away and never learn the truth. He wasn’t sure which option was more terrifying.

Hoping to distract himself, he picked up a book from the side table. It happened to be a compilation of Yeats’ works. He idly flipped it open, reading the first poem that caught his eye. _Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, / Enwrought with golden and silver light, / The blue and the dim and the dark cloths / Of night and light and the half-light. / I would spread the cloths under your feet: / But I, being poor, have only my dreams; / I have spread my dreams under your feet; / Tread softly because you tread on my dreams_. How apropos, he thought to himself.

His eye strayed to the next poem. _When you are old_. He had never read that one before, and it hit him like a shot to the heart. Yes, this was it. This was perfect. He would speak his heart, in a sense, but he would do so at a careful distance, give George plenty of opportunity to pretend he hadn’t said anything, to keep the dynamic of their friendship intact. He would get it off his chest, and – hopefully – not ruin their friendship in the process. Emboldened with his plan, he jumped up and set to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, what is Mr. K planning ;)


	13. Chapter 12 - What happened after Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George has a revelation.

McAllister had decided to stay at Welton for the Christmas break; he was in no mood for celebrations. He had been wandering about in a daze, unsure what to do with himself with no classes to teach and no best friend to while away the hours with. It was as if the color had drained from the halls of Welton when Keating left; as if he had been the sun, taking all light and life with him, leaving only the dreary greyness of twilight in the dead of winter. McAllister hid away in his rooms, nursing his heartache. He hadn’t heard a thing from Keating in the weeks since he left – not a letter, not a phone call, nothing. Had their friendship meant so little to the younger man? Or had something happened to his friend? He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

McAllister was surprised, therefore, when a package arrived for him on the day after Boxing Day. Judging by the size, it was a book. At first, he assumed it was a Christmas gift from his bookshop friend, delayed in the post; on closer inspection, however, he didn’t recognize the return address. Intrigued, he carefully peeled back the paper to reveal, indeed, a book, bound in worn black leather. He turned it over, and his breath caught in his throat as he recognized the book. _The_ book. With trembling hands, he opened it to the title page and read the familiar inscription: “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately...” He ran a quivering fingertip over Keating’s signature on the top right corner of the page, memories flooding him and tears burning in his throat. Why would Keating send this to him? He had loved this book. Maybe, after all that had happened, the painful memories outweighed the happy ones.

There was a single bookmark in the book. Curious to know what his friend had been reading – seeking, perhaps, some kind of second-hand contact with him – McAllister opened the book to the marked page. It wasn’t exactly a bookmark, he realized – it was the ticket from the time they’d gone to see the New York Philharmonic. Another flood of memories; another stab of sadness. Swallowing back the tears, McAllister looked at the page.

It was an Oscar Wilde poem, _Silentium Amoris_. The silence of love, the translated without thinking. To his surprise, someone – Keating, he was sure; he recognized the handwriting – had penciled a single word in the margin: “George”. A few lines next to it were underlined. _“...for excess of Love my Love is dumb. / But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show / Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung; / Else it were better we should part, and go, / Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, / And I to nurse the barren memory / Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung_.

McAllister felt his breath leave him in a rush; he sank down in his chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Did this mean... was this a confession? An invitation? Was it possible that his love was not as one-sided as he had thought? He felt a little dizzy at the possibility. He read and re-read the lines, trying to convince himself that he was misinterpreting their meaning, but they seemed clear as day. _My Love_. And they had very clearly been dedicated to him. And of course, the fact that it was Wilde, of all poets. Everyone knew what the man had been most notorious for – certainly not his writing.

He was seized by a sudden, urgent need to talk to Keating. He picked up the telephone, but realized that he didn’t actually have a phone number for him. He grabbed the wrapping that the book had come in, hoping against hope that it may offer some clue. To his surprise, a note fluttered out. He must have missed it before. It was a handwritten poem, in Keating’s scrawl, this time from Yeats:

_When you are old and grey and full of sleep,_

_And nodding by the fire, take down this book,_

_And slowly read, and dream of the soft look_

_Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;_

_How many loved your moments of glad grace,_

_And loved your beauty with love false or true,_

_But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,_

_And loved the sorrows of your changing face;_

_And bending down beside the glowing bars,_

_Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled_

_And paced upon the mountains overhead_

_And hid his face amid a crowd of stars._

By the time he got to the end, his heart was beating double time. He was certain, now. This had not just been a gift; it had been a message. He grabbed the wrapping again, looking at the return address. Yes! It was in upstate New York, just a few hours away by train. Seized by a sudden bravery, he picked up the phone to call a taxi – he would do this in person. No more riddles, no more hiding. He would find out for sure, once and for all.

\---

The train ride to New York, and the subsequent taxi ride, took several hours. This gave McAllister far too much time to second-guess himself. He was pretty sure he was reading Keating’ gift correctly, but... he could still be wrong, wouldn’t he? It had happened before – how long ago was it now? 25-odd years? He had been in love – that all-consuming, head-over-heels kind of love – only once before. That time, in the naivety of youth, he had made his love known – and had been rejected so soundly that he had sworn he would never make that mistake again. A bachelor’s life, surrounded by frankly unlikable men, had ensured that he had never needed to worry about guarding his heart from love again.

Never again, that is, until John Keating had waltzed into his life and upset his whole carefully crafted equilibrium. The man was a force of nature, and in the end, McAllister was defenseless against him. Staring out of the window, he replayed the last few months in his mind. Now that he allowed himself to look past his own self-doubt, he could see clear hints of Keating’s affections. He remembered his grief-stricken friend clinging to him like he was a life-raft after a shipwreck. He remembered a hand squeezing his arm, and ‘It was... wonderful’ after a day at the orchestra. He remembered “beautiful,” murmured with a look of pure adoration. Had it really been that long? Had he been blind for so many months? All those cups of tea, all the shared jokes, all the music and poems and stories – it all took on a new color.

By the time the taxi pulled up outside the Keating residence, McAllister’s resolve was firm: he would speak his mind, and face the consequences. If he was wrong, then... well, at least he could stop wondering. He would go back to Welton and start the painstaking process of piecing together his shattered heart. And if he was right... well, he hardly dared to think of that. He had absolutely no mental roadmap for how things would go from there.

He paid the taxi driver, grabbed his bag and the book, and climbed up the steps. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and rang the doorbell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping this up tomorrow....


	14. Chapter 13 - Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, at last, these two find their way back to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has art! (in text)

Keating was surprised when he heard the doorbell ring. His parents were out of town, visiting friends in Washington for the week, and he certainly wasn’t expecting any visitors. He felt his heart sink – despite his almost preternaturally friendly nature, he really wasn’t in the mood for company. He had worked hard to keep his spirits up through Christmas, for his mother’s sake, and he felt that he was owed a few days to wallow in his grief. The bell rang again. Clearly, whoever it was wasn’t going to give up. With a resigned sigh, he heaved himself out of his seat to go answer.

Nothing could have prepared him for who was waiting on the other side of the door. “George?” he stammered. “Wh... what... why...” And George, damn him, just held up the book and raised an eyebrow at him, the faintest suggestion of a smile tugging at his mouth. Well, damn it all. Keating had never though this far ahead, hadn’t dared to imagine that his gift would prompt any sort of reaction from the other man, except maybe to send him running for the hills. “I... the... we...” His brain couldn’t make words happen right now. Why was George here? Was he mad? He didn’t look mad. Did he want to return the book, _‘oh, I can’t possibly accept this’_? Did he even understand what the gift had been trying to say?

Keating realized he had been standing with his mouth open for an inappropriately long time when George asked, softly, “Do you mind if I come in?” This snapped him back to himself. “Of course, sorry, where are my manners.” He stood aside and gestured for the other man to enter. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. How did you even find the place?” “Return address on the parcel. Thought I’d take my chances.” George responded, looking faintly amused at Keating’s discomfiture. “Tea?” asked Keating, desperately striking out for some sort of normality. He turned to the kitchen, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. “Not just yet, John.” George said, an uncertain look in his eyes. “If you don’t mind, I want to talk to you first, and... well... afterwards you may not want me to stick around for tea.” He was looking down at this point, so Keating couldn’t see his eyes, but the tremble in his voice betrayed something very much like fear. _I’ll always want you to stick around,_ Keating thought to himself, _always, even if you’re here to tell me to stop being an idiot and back off, I’ll still want you around, just like I always have._ Out loud, he said, “Okay then,” and led his friend to the living room.

Keating sat down on one end of the sofa, and was surprised when George sat down next to him rather than on the chair opposite. “John” he started. Swallowed, took a breath. Started again. “I’m afraid I’m not...” _Not comfortable with this? Not interested? Not able to be friends with someone as depraved as you?_ There were too many ways for that sentence to end badly. “I’m not... sure what this... means. What you’re trying to say – if you’re trying to say anything. If I’m just reading things into it.” George was getting flustered now. Keating longed to reach out to him, take his hand, say to him _hey, it’s okay, it’s just me._ “The thing is...” George took another fortifying breath “You wrote this note, and you marked that poem, the Wilde one, and it... well... it looks very much like you’re trying to tell me something.” At this point he seemed to gather up his courage and looked Keating square in the eyes. “Are you, John? Are you trying to tell me something?”

It was Keating’s turn to feel embarrassed, and he dropped his eyes to where his hands were clenched in his lap. “Yes,” he managed to whisper. “Yes, I am. I’m so sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, and I’ll understand if you...” He was interrupted by a hand placed on his. “Look at me, John.” He met George’s gaze, and the tenderness in his eyes almost floored him. “There. Now, John. Tell me again. Tell me to my face this time.” What had he said to Charlie all those months ago? _There's a time for daring and there's a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for_. Which was this? They held eye contact for a moment that stretched into eternity, and Keating realized: courage. This is a time for courage, if ever there was one. This is where the two roads diverge in the wood, and he had to take the one less traveled, or he would spend the rest of his life wondering. “I...” His voice came out as a croak, and he had to clear his throat. “I love you, George.” He dropped his gaze again, afraid of what he would see in the other man’s face, afraid of the disgust, the pity he was sure would be written there. “You don’t mean that just like a friend, do you?” came the soft question. “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Keating whispered, eyes still fixed on his hands. To his surprise, he felt a soft hand on his cheek, gently lifting his face to meet his friend’s eyes again. “Oh John,” George breathed, voice quavering, “I love you too, you stupid, brilliant man.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187976701@N07/49780396193/in/dateposted-public/)

“You... you what?” Keating sat up in shock. Somehow, his brain couldn’t process the words he was hearing. Was he dreaming? “You... love me? Really?” “Yes, really.” George was chuckling, and Keating wondered what his face looked like. “Is it that hard to believe? You are rather brilliant, you know.” Keating blushed at the praise, dropped his gaze. George’s hand came up to cradle his face again, and he leaned into it almost instinctually, blush deepening when he realized what he was doing. “Oh, George,” he managed, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Can I...?” Keating wasn’t sure how to ask for what he wanted. Why did his usual eloquence have to desert him now, of all times? “May I... perhaps... kiss you?” His voice was almost inaudible by the end. In answer, George leaned forward, pressed their foreheads together. “Oh, I was hoping you would.”

So he did.

And for a few eternal moments on December 27, 1959, the world stopped turning on its axis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! :) Epilogue to follow.
> 
> Art link again, if you missed it: https://sani-86.tumblr.com/image/612360048374579200 It's one of my favorite things I've ever drawn, I've been dying to share it!


	15. Epilogue

_2000, Oxford_

John Keating sat at the small kitchen table, cup of tea in hand, enjoying the spring sun shining in through the window. As he watched a pair of sparrows bobbing around on the fence outside, he ran the thumb of his left hand over the gold band that graced his ring finger. They’d neve gotten married, him and George – not in any way recognised by the law, at least – but he’d been wearing this ring for almost 40 years now. Time had changed him: his hair was entirely grey now, his face lined (he counted himself fortunate that the smile lines were etched more deeply than the frown lines), his fingers gnarled and spotted with age – but those blue eyes were as kind and lively as ever.

As it always did in moments like these, his mind wandered back over the last four decades of his life. It had been two years since he lost George, and the ache was still there. Not as raw and ragged as it had been those first months, but a nagging emptiness, like the absence of an amputated limb. Over the years, their two lives had become so entangled that they seemed to be one; a single shared life filled with love, laughter and warmth. God, how he missed him.

Keating’s thumb continued twirling the ring. He smiled as he remembered the day he got it. It was the summer of 1960, school had closed for the holidays, and they were spending more time together than ever. Keating had picked up a job at the local public library, unwilling to move too far from Welton; it was quite difficult enough maintaining a relationship when you had to keep it a secret, he wasn’t about to complicate things by adding distance into the mix.

They had been walking in the park along the lake, talking idly about this and that. Keating had thought George looked a little out of sorts for the last few days, but he didn’t mention it; he knew by now that his love would speak when he was ready. And sure enough, as they stood looking at the swallows swooping over the water, George cleared his throat. “John,” he said, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.” “Of course, you know you can always talk to me.” Keating tried not to let worry take root – he hadn’t heard George sound quite this solemn since the night he’d brought news of Neil. “I’ve had an offer,” George continued, “A teaching position, at a university.” “That’s fantastic news!” Keating interjected. “Do you a world of good to get away from Welton.” “The thing is,” said George nervously, ”it’s rather _far_ away from Welton. Several thousand miles away, in fact. At Oxford.” Keating was momentarily speechless. Well, that put a new perspective on things. “A year ago, I wouldn’t even have thought twice about accepting; I’ve wanted to go to Oxford for as long as I can remember. But now...” Keating didn’t need to hear the rest of that sentence to know that he was the ‘but now.’

“George! Please don’t tell me you’re considering not going! You can’t miss this opportunity.” He interjected. “No,” George said, “No, that’s not it. I was just wondering, well...” George turned around to meet his gaze. “Will you come with me?” Keating could not stop the smile that broke over his features like a sunrise. “You see,” George went on. “The last few months have been the most wonderful of my life. Knowing you, loving you – it’s been better than a dream. And it would break my heart to leave you behind, no matter what I got in exchange.” Keating opened his mouth to respond, but George held up a hand to shush him. “I know things will never be easy if we choose to go together. But I choose you, choose to share my life with you, for as long as you’ll have me. Will you? At this his eyes flicked down to his hand: there was a golden ring lying in his palm. Keating was stunned; momentarily speechless. Was this happening? Could they really have this? Then the truth of what George was asking struck him all at once, and all he could do was tackle the older man in a hug, crying and laughing and mumbling “yes, yes, yes!” into his neck. George chuckled, untangled himself gently and trying to surreptitiously wipe the tears from his own eyes. “Love, you’re making a scene. People are staring.” He said softly “Let them!” Keating laughed, as he slipped the ring onto his finger. “We won’t have to worry about them for long – we’re going to Oxford!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for our boys! I'm gonna miss them. Thank you to everyone who read along, commented, left kudos - you make my day every time xx  
> I'd love it if you come say hi on Tumblr: https://sani-86.tumblr.com/


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